The Thief's Daughter
Read The Thief's Daughter Online
Authors: Jeff Wheeler
BOOKS BY JEFF WHEELER
The Kingfountain Series
The Queen’s Poisoner
The Thief’s Daughter
The King’s Traitor
The Covenant of Muirwood Trilogy
The Banished of Muirwood
The Ciphers of Muirwood
The Void of Muirwood
The Legends of Muirwood Trilogy
The Wretched of Muirwood
The Blight of Muirwood
The Scourge of Muirwood
Whispers from Mirrowen Trilogy
Fireblood
Dryad-Born
Poisonwell
Landmoor Series
Landmoor
Silverkin
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2016 Jeff Wheeler
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by 47North, Seattle
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and 47North are trademarks of
Amazon.com
, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503935006
ISBN-10: 1503935000
Cover design by Shasti O’Leary-Soudant/SOS CREATIVE LLC
To Victoria
CONTENTS
REALMS & CHARACTERS
MONARCHIES
Ceredigion:
Severn (House of Argentine): usurped throne from his brother’s sons who are missing and presumed murdered. He is forty years old and has reigned over his troubled kingdom for over a decade.
Occitania:
Chatriyon VIII (House of Vertus): succeeded his father at age thirteen and ruled under the regency of his older sister until age twenty-one. Upon assuming total control of the throne, he began interfering with the sovereign rights of his cousin, the Duchess of Brythonica, with the intention of forcing her into a marriage alliance with him.
Atabyrion:
Iago IV (House of Llewellyn): known for personal courage and bravery. His father (Iago III) was an ineffective king and plagued by the revolts of his own earls and a history of conflict with Ceredigion, the last being in the final year of Eredur’s reign, in which Eredur’s brother (Severn) and Duke Horwath defeated the Atabyrions in a decisive battle. During a subsequent rebellion, Iago III was killed and Iago IV became king at age fifteen. He is now nineteen and still unmarried.
LORDS OF CEREDIGION
Owen Kiskaddon:
Duke of Westmarch
Stiev Horwath:
Duke of North Cumbria
Jack Paulen:
Duke of East Stowe
Thomas Lovel:
Duke of Southport
Dominic Mancini:
master of the Espion, the king’s spy service
Documenting the history of Ceredigion will take, in my estimation, ten years to complete. I am entranced by what I have learned in my stay thus far and do not intend, for the foreseeable future, to return to Pisan. I have started my history at the beginning of the reign of Severn Argentine and will proceed backward to document the reign of his brother, Eredur Argentine, and then delve into the civil wars that occupy a great portion of the histories. I have found a kindred spirit and great wealth of knowledge in the person of the Duke of North Cumbria’s granddaughter, Lady Elysabeth Victoria Mortimer, who shares my fiery passion for history and has a surprising command of the details for a girl of seventeen. It will not be long, in my estimation, before King Severn secures a formal marriage alliance for her.
—Polidoro Urbino, Court Historian of Kingfountain
CHAPTER ONE
The Duke of Westmarch
Owen Kiskaddon wasn’t comfortable wearing a full suit of armor. It made him feel constrained, like he was wearing someone else’s boots, so he rarely put on more than a chain hauberk. He was dressed that way now, his hand resting on his sword pommel, as he walked through the camp of soldiers on the eve before his first battle as commander. The night was settling in quickly, and even in the early twilight, he could see a few stars winking at him.
He missed the cold and beautiful North, which had become his home for nearly ten years. And he missed his closest friend, Evie, the Duke of North Cumbria’s granddaughter. She would be desperate for news about his first battle, and he was both nervous and excited for what was to come. Although he was expecting blood, he wasn’t looking forward to seeing the crimson stain. He knew the techniques of battle, but he had not yet tested them. For years he had trained in the saddle, trained with swords, axes, bows, and lances. Most importantly, he loved reading about battles, studying the accounts of the famous ones, ancient and modern. He could recite, from memory, how many soldiers had marched onto the muddy fields of Azinkeep and how the king had used a mixture of sharpened stakes, archers, and well-chosen ground to defeat a much larger force. But while everyone studied the histories, Owen brought it a step further. He liked to re-invent them.
What would he have done, as the battle commander of the Occitanian army, to defeat the King of Ceredigion at Azinkeep? Like the game of Wizr, he didn’t just look at opportunities from his own side’s perspective. He looked at it from the other sides too. And long ago, he had realized that there were more than just two sides to any conflict in the game of king and crowns, and there were always unexpected pieces waiting to be introduced to the board.
“Evening, my lord,” said one of Owen’s soldiers as he passed the man’s campfire, lost in thought.
Owen paused and stared down at the man, whose name he could not remember. “Good eventide. Who do you serve under?” Owen asked. Even though the man was twice his own age, he looked up at Owen with reverence and respect.
“Harkins, my lord. My name is Will, and I serve under Harkins. Do you think this weather will hold for the battle tomorrow?”
“Well met, Will. Hopefully it does with a little luck, eh?”
Owen gave him a tired smile, a grateful nod, and continued on his way toward the command tents. He did not think he would sleep at all. How many of the soldiers were feeling jitters and nerves over putting their trust in such a young man? King Severn had led his first battle at the age of eighteen. Owen was a year younger than that. He felt the weight of the responsibility on his shoulders.
It bothered Owen a little, more than a little actually, that his men had such blind faith in him. Very few people could sense the ripples of Fountain magic, but those who did were endowed with magical abilities that amplified some of their natural talents. These gifts were so rare that everyone knew the stories of how Owen’s ability with the Fountain had been discovered when he was just a child. What they didn’t realize was that while he
was
Fountain-blessed, his supposed gift of seeing the future was a total deception. The cunning Ankarette Tryneowy, the queen’s poisoner, had helped him perpetuate the ruse when he was a child in order to make him indispensable to the king. Together, they had misled the entire kingdom. After Ankarette’s death, the deception had continued with the help of Dominic Mancini, the king’s master of the Espion, who fed him some of the larger political developments before they were commonly known, cementing Owen’s reputation for future-seeing both within Ceredigion and abroad. Although the king had said Mancini’s appointment would only be temporary, the spymaster had an uncanny way of improving the king’s interests, and had managed to hold on to his position for years. Owen and Mancini had a mutually beneficial partnership, one that served both of them well.
Sometimes Owen had already guessed the news the Espion snuck to him because of his keen ability to predict the cause and effect of things. For example, Mancini had not told him that King Iago Llewellyn of Atabyrion would strike an alliance with Chatriyon of Occitania, uniting the two kingdoms against Ceredigion, but he wasn’t surprised in the least that it had happened. It wasn’t being Fountain-blessed. It was being smart.
As Owen approached the command tent, the guards protecting it lifted their poleaxes to let him through. At seventeen, Owen had not finished growing yet, but he was already a man’s height, and he was wearing his family badge, the Aurum—three golden bucks’ heads on a field of blue.
The instant he ducked under the entryway, Owen saw Duke Horwath, who was wearing his battle armor and holding a goblet of sweet-smelling wine. His hair had gone grayer over the past few years, but he still had the same calm, unflappable demeanor that had always impressed the young man. He was a soldier, through and through, and had fought in numerous battles over the last fifty years. His steady presence filled Owen with confidence.
“Evening, lad,” Horwath said, dipping his head, giving him a wry smile.
“You don’t look at all nervous,” Owen said, hardly able to suppress a smile.
Horwath shrugged, took another sip, and set his cup down on a small table near a fur rug.
“Any word from your granddaughter?” Owen asked hopefully.
“She said she’d hold the North if the Atabyrions invade while we’re here doing battle with the Occitanians. I think she’s hoping they do. She’s a little jealous, you know, that you get to be part of a battle before
she
does.”
Owen smiled at the sentiment, picturing her in his mind. Doing so always made him feel strangely excited, as if a cloud of butterflies had all clustered inside his stomach. He didn’t know whether the feeling was battle jitters or the simple longing to see her again. He did his best not to mope, but he did miss her. She had lovely brown hair that was long and thick. Sometimes it was braided. Sometimes not. She had eyes that were the most transfixing shade of blue . . . no, they were green . . . or gray. It really depended on the light and her mood. He missed her way of chattering on and on, her quick wit, and her wickedly delightful sense of humor. Elysabeth Victoria Mortimer—Evie—was his best friend in the entire world and the only other person aside from Mancini who knew his deepest secret.
“Careful, lad,” the duke warned, seeing Owen’s faraway look. “Keep your thoughts here in Occitania, where they belong. You don’t want to be daydreaming when a sword comes at your helmet.”
Owen had indeed been daydreaming, so he smiled ruefully. The duke meant him well—after all these years, he was almost a grandfather to him too. Owen could see the grizzled duke hoped for an alliance between their duchies. Though Owen and Evie were never allowed to go off alone together, not without Evie’s maid, the three of them were known to plunge off rocks into the river at the base of waterfalls and take some unnecessary risks to their health.
“When do we call in the captains?” Owen asked, chafing his gloved hands. He was impatient for dawn.
“They are settling down the soldiers for the night. They’ll be here shortly. You keep pacing. Should have brought your tiles to stack.”
Owen smirked. One habit that had survived boyhood was his love for stacking tiles into intricate patterns. Now that he was older, the patterns were even more ridiculously complex, and his collection had grown to an impressive quantity of tiles.
Owen’s herald, an officer by the name of Farnes, ducked into the tent. He was in his mid-forties and already had some gray in his reddish hair. He knew protocol better than anyone and had served Owen’s father in many battles. “My lords,” he said after a stiff bow. “The herald from the King of Occitania just arrived in camp. He wishes for an audience with you both.”
Owen looked over to Horwath, who frowned slightly. But rather than offer his opinion, the grizzled duke just said, “It’s your army, lad.”
“Well, send him in, Farnes,” Owen said. As soon as the man left, Owen clasped his hands behind his back and started pacing again. “My guess is he’s here to bribe or threaten us. A bribe is more likely. He can always pay us with the coins he’s planning to rob from the Duchess of Brythonica’s coffers.” The current hostilities had been sparked, in part, by the King of Occitania’s attempts to force the duchess to marry him against her will. The duchess had begged assistance from all the neighboring kingdoms, and Severn had heeded her call to secure an ally. “How much do you think he’ll offer to send us away without a fight?” Owen continued.
Duke Horwath chuckled to himself. “Does it even matter how much it is?”
“Of course not. He doesn’t understand us . . . or Ceredigion. I just want to get a sense of whether I should feel insulted or not.” Hearing the sound of boots approaching, he paused to listen. “Here they come.”
The herald announced the visitor as Anjers, and the Occitanian proceeded to enter the tent, striking his head on the tent flap when he didn’t duck low enough while entering. It mussed up his hair somewhat, making Owen stifle a smile.
There was something about Occitanian fashion that Owen hated. The man’s tunic was puffed velvet, a lavender color with lilies on it. The collar was stiff, straight, and high, making it almost look like a chain around the man’s neck. The hair, as always, was combed forward, regardless of whether a man was balding or not, making the front point out. It was combed forward on the sides as well, making the tips look like feathers. No matter the fashion, the Occitanians were darkly handsome, and Anjers was no exception, even at twice Owen’s age.
“Ah, the young duke,” Anjers said, trying to fix the hair that had been mussed by the tent flap. He spoke Owen’s language flawlessly. Commenting on Owen’s age was not the best way he could have begun his speech.
“You have a message from your master?” Owen asked in a bored tone. He folded his arms and gave Duke Horwath a sidelong look.
“Yes, my name is Anjers, herald to Chatriyon, King of Occitania. Once again he is making an invocation of peace to Ceredigion. The affair with Brythonica is a matter of no concern to you. The king would be your ally and friend. As such, he proposes to pay the expenses for your campaign. If a battle is required to appease your bloodthirsty king, then he will allow the slaughter of three thousand men of his ranks to appease the Butcher of Ceredigion. It is my master’s hope, however, that as princes, a truce can be signed between our realms without shedding any blood. The king rightfully seeks the hand of Lady Sinia, one of his own subjects, and a unified realm. At what price may my master be assured that this meddling will end?”
Owen listened patiently to the speech, but he was bristling inside at the words being used, both the accusations against his king and the brutal offer of collusion. He released some of his pent-up Fountain magic to discern the man’s weakness and saw that he was a diplomat, not a soldier. He wore no armor beneath his puffy sleeves and was completely vulnerable. Owen had learned much about his abilities over the years from the king himself, who had tutored him on drawing his magic from the Fountain. The two had learned that Owen’s well of capability had greater depth than the king’s, which may have been a result of the fact that the king hadn’t discovered his own gifts until much later in life.
Though Owen knew from Mancini that King Severn was deprecated in foreign courts as a ruthless tyrant, a villain, and a child killer, that version of him was no more the real King Severn than a toy sword could create true slices. Though the king’s nephews had indeed disappeared, he was not responsible for their deaths. His mistake had been to allow untrustworthy men to take the children into custody.
The herald had long since finished speaking, and the silence grew awkward. Owen stared the man in the eye, letting the silence draw out longer, increasing the herald’s discomfort. Men always felt uncomfortable in silence. He stared at Anjers all the while.
“I don’t know which offends me more,” Owen said evenly. “That your master believed he could buy us with a battlefield victory. Or that he thought we could be
bought
at all. Especially after his father tried to purchase my death at the hands of our former spymaster when I was a child.” Owen paused a moment to let his words sink in. His supposed ability to see the future had been perceived as a threat by the realm’s enemies, which had led to the assassination attempt. “I
knew
you were coming tonight,” Owen said, letting his voice develop a mystical quality. “You tell your master this. When the sun dawns over this field, he will know the true measure of the men of Ceredigion. There is no gold that will turn us away from our purpose. My king and master made an oath to the Duchess of Brythonica that he would defend her realm. Your master will see that we do keep our vows. Tell him this, Herald. And return to this camp again at your peril. My king has not forgotten that this land was once ours. We have every right to come to the defense of
our
true subjects.”
The herald’s expression flickered with rage and contempt. “By your leave then. Boy.”
